Ancestry: The Tale of Emma May LeFleur
by Mechanical-Angelical
Summary: One Breton woman embarks upon a quest for vengeance that will take her across a shattered Empire, beginning in High Rock and ending up in Skyrim, where the things she discovers will change her life forever. Please R&R if the mood takes you.
1. Chapter 1: The Valtheim Towers

Ancestry: The Tale of Emma LeFleur

**Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim ownership of, The Elder Scrolls series, Skyrim, or any property belonging to Bethesda Softworks. **

"You see, I just don't understand what Ragnar wants us to do."

"It's not difficult. Stop people, tell them it's a toll road, demand money. Simple." The female bandit sighed, adjusted her padded leather jerkin, and turned back to the cooking pot, where a simple venison stew was gently simmering. The smell wafted into her nostrils, and she inhaled deeply. Perfect again. A flicker of annoyance crossed her face as her companion strode over, grabbed the stirring spoon and slurped a large mouthful from it. To her disgust, he continued talking.

"But what if they refuse to pay?" The male bandit, a Nord called Ulfgar the Odorous by everyone (although never to his face), dribbled some of his mouthful of stew into his tangled brown beard as he spoke. The female bandit, whose name was Ellen Indrolian, snorted and raised her eyebrow. She was a Bosmer, and had a hunting bow and quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder.

"We're _bandits_, Ulfgar. What in the name of the Eight Divines do you _think _we do?"

"Uh...kill them?"

"Top class, Ulfgar." Ellen's voice was full of scorn as she turned back to her cooking pot. "Now go away. You're distracting me." She reached to a pouch on her belt and retrieved a handful of spices, which she sprinkled into the stew, before stirring it again. Ulfgar stood up, turning, his heavy iron armour clanking in time with his footsteps.

Ellen and Ulfgar were members of a group of bandits currently inhabiting the Valtheim Towers, a pair of old stone towers connected by a bridge and spanning the White River, east of Whiterun. They answered to their chief, Ragnar Bloodhammer, a hulking brute of a Nord named for his prowess with the Elven-made warhammer he was never seen without.

As Ellen had just explained, they were here running a toll-road scam in which they attempted to charge passers-by two hundred septims to pass. More often than not they paid, which was disappointing, as the items looted off the corpses of those who refused to pay more often than not added up to more than double the toll in worth. It was a simplistic life, and paid well.

Every bandit has his or her own reasons for joining a group, whether it was the money, the fighting, or just because they couldn't function in society. Ellen, for example, was trying to raise a couple of thousand septims that would enable her to buy a house in Riften or Whiterun and live quietly. Ulfgar was there because he enjoyed beheading people. Each to their own.

Ulfgar had reached the entrance of the tower on their side of the river and was just about to enter when they heard the hooves. The horse couldn't have been moving faster than a trot, and Ellen quickly stood, checking her bow was strung and making sure she had easy access to it. Ulfgar reached to his belt and retrieved his heavy iron war axe, grabbing his shield from its place leaning against the wall.

The sound of hooves clicking against the road grew closer and closer until finally a dark shadow rounded the corner. The dark Skyrim nights made it hard to see, but Ellen could just about make out the shape of a person on the back of the black horse. Unnervingly, the horse's eyes appeared to glow red in the darkness. As the horse and its rider approached, Ellen spoke.

"Stop!"

The rider tugged slightly on the horse's reins and it slowed to a halt, before turning their head to face the two bandits. Ellen swallowed slightly, and continued.

"This is a toll road, see? You gotta pay...200 septims to pass." Ellen was using her best intimidating voice, but to her ears, she sounded slightly meek and insignificant, especially when compared to the shadowy figure atop the demonic horse. Looking closer at the silhouette, Ellen could make out pauldrons protruding from its shoulders. Ellen gulped. The figure was armoured, and therefore most likely armed. Still, there was one of them, and twelve bandits. The figure was outnumbered.

Then the figure atop the horse removed its foot from one stirrup and dropped from the horse with a thud that rolled across the steep hills surrounding the towers. As it moved, moonlight reflected from a pale green, gemlike substance that adorned the armour the figure wore. _Malachite,_ Ellen thought. _By the eight, who have we picked a fight with?_

The figure took three steps towards Ellen, a malachite, or glass as it was known, sword swinging in a sheath at her waist, stopping a foot or so short of Ellen. Now they were closer, the fire heating the forgotten cooking pot illuminated more of the figure, allowing Ellen to see the beautifully crafted helmet , with the smooth-skinned chin and plump, feminine lips. It was a woman! Ellen stared into the cold, turquoise eyes beneath the helmet, trying to discern the woman's race. Then she spoke, and it became apparent.

"Listen. I'm going to go on my way now. Go back to your cooking, darling. Save yourself a fight you won't win."

Ellen moved to back away from the armoured woman, whose accent had made it clear she was a native of High Rock, a Breton. _So as well as the armour and the sword, she could be a mage. Let's leave this one, _Ellen thought, her heart pounding in her chest. Then she heard a growling, throaty laugh. _Oh s'wit. Ulfgar!_

Ulfgar the Odourous finished laughing, and unsheathed his axe.

"Come on. Let's teach this _girl_ a lesson she won't forget, Ellen!" And with that, he gave a great battle roar, and, with a manoeuvre Ellen had seen rend many a head from its associated pair of shoulders, swung his axe towards the Breton woman's neck. Ellen swallowed – Ulfgar seemed to have the element of surprise on the oddly slow to react Breton, and she expected to see the woman's head drop from her shoulders.

It didn't.

With a speed Ellen had never seen any mortal possess, the woman swiped her sword from its sheath and swung it. The flat of the finely crafted blade struck Ulfgar's axe, and runes carved into the blade flashed red. Ulfgar screamed and staggered back as unearthly flames consumed his body, appearing seemingly from nowhere. Then, mere seconds after they had materialised, the flames vanished, leaving Ulfgar burnt and his armour charred, but alive. He roared again, and moved once more to strike at the Breton.

He never got near. The woman drove her sword towards him, feinting around his clumsy, last-minute shield block, and buried the blade in his neck. Blood spurted outwards from the wound, the blade exiting from the other side of the stocky Nord's neck. Ulfgar choked, as if he was trying to say something, then went limp, sliding off the Breton's blade. Ellen watched, appalled.

She had not been standing idle while Ulfgar had been attacking the Breton, however, and as she watched Ulfgar's bloodied body hit the ground, she let loose the arrow she had nocked, sending it flying towards the Breton. While she had nocked the arrow, she had taken several paces back, putting distance between herself and the woman who even now was turning her attention to Ellen.

The arrow flew towards the woman, but she had been expecting the moved, and sidestepped the arrow, before taking several long strides towards Ellen. The Bosmer dropped her bow, going for the dagger at her belt – and gasped as the Breton's blade buried itself in her abdomen. Her eyes widened as she stared at the face of her attacker, her killer.

The Breton, Ellen realised, was beautiful, possessing the sleekly defined, sub-elven features of her race. She couldn't see the hair beneath the helmet, as it was probably held up by a net of some sort, but she imagined the Breton had dark hair that would fly behind her when she moved. She gasped again, desperately trying to form words, but the Breton spoke again.

"I'm sorry you tried to rob me, stranger. Are there more?" Her voice was silky and smooth, and it strangely calmed Ellen as her life force ebbed slowly away. Ellen managed to nod, and the Breton nodded in return, before slowly sliding the sword out, leaving Ellen to crash to the ground. The soft, damp grass rushed up to meet her, and she saw the sky spill out above her, the various constellations shining down around the twin moons.

She saw the Breton walk away into the tower, and knew that Ragnar and his bunch were doomed, for who could stand up to such a being? She pondered her wound. There was no pain, which was odd, for she could see the blood slowly spilling over her jerkin. Her blood. But all she felt was tiredness, waves of it.

She thought of Valenwood, of the mighty tree-cities of her homeland, of her own tree-house. She thought of how she had left seeking fortune in Skyrim. She knew she would never return, and that thought saddened her. Then a final wave of tiredness hit her, stronger than the rest, and her eyelids grew heavy. She longed to sleep, to rest for a while.

Ellen Indrolian closed her eyes, and slipped away into a sleep from which she would never awaken.


	2. Chapter 2: The Bloodhammer

**Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim ownership of, The Elder Scrolls series, Skyrim, or any property belonging to Bethesda Softworks. **

The Breton woman, sword in hand, strode into the first of the two Valtheim Towers, leaving the corpses of the Nord and the Bosmer behind her. She found herself in a small, cramped room, containing a desk scattered with rolls of paper and an iron dagger buried into the wooden surface, a set of stairs leading further up into the tower and, of most interest to her, a heavy, locked chest.

She approached the chest, and knelt down, the moonstone detailing on her armour glinting. The lock wasn't a complex one, as far as she could see, so she reached to her wrist and flicked open a small compartment, built into her armour. Inside lay a lockpick and a torsion wrench. She took the two objects out, placing the torsion wrench in her left hand and the lockpick in her right, before sliding the wrench into the lock and pushing the lockpick in above it.

She twisted the wrench, turning the lock, until she felt resistance. She moved the lockpick to the left a few millimetres and applied more torque with the torsion wrench. The lock turned a bit further, then bit against the pick again. She moved the pick again, twisted again, and swore as she used too much force and the pick snapped.

She rolled her eyes. The rest of her picks were in Shadowmere's saddlebags. She closed her eyes, concentrated and whispered,

"Lucien, I have need of you."

A rushing sound filled the air as reality itself warped and burst behind the Breton in a ball of pulsating blue light. When the light faded, the shadow of a man stood behind her. His ethereal form was clad in ghostly robes and a hood. In life, he had been Lucien Lachance, Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. Two hundred years after his death, he now served as one of the Breton's first ports of call for advice and combat assistance.

It seemed the void had been good for the assassin. Being a spirit, he was much more resilient than a mortal companion. He couldn't die. He was unbelievably fast. And he had no conscience. He was the perfect companion, especially for the Breton's various adventures.

"Listener...you called?" Lachance had a deep, smooth voice that would chill anybody to their very core. The Breton had become used to it though, and simply nodded, before gesturing in the direction of her horse.

"Lockpicks. In the saddlebags." She said, not looking up from the lock. There was something different, something off about this particular chest. She saw Lucien go through the motion of sighing, which didn't involve actually sighing because Lucien didn't breathe, and stride over to the horse. The Breton continued to examine the lock.

Lucien returned seconds later, a small pouch clutched in his corporeal hand. He offered it wordlessly to the Breton, who took it and retrieved another lockpick from within. Using her first attempt as a starting point, she quickly picked the lock, hearing it click open. She smiled, flicked the catch, and pushed the chest's lid open.

She heard a _twang_, and propelled herself backwards just in time as a mace swung on a chain from a bracket on the ceiling. A second later and it would have cracked her skull, or at least taken a good chunk out of her helmet. There had been a small piece of string attached to both the chest lid and the floor – when the Breton had opened the chest, it had snapped, releasing the mace.

Pushing herself up from the floor, she moved back towards the chest as a ghostly shape flew past her. Lucien had moved with unnatural speed, a dagger of shadow materialising in his hand, which he had buried in the neck of the bandit who had come down investigating the noise. The bandit choked on the blade, and fell onto the stairs, cracking his head. The Breton smiled.

"Thank you, Lucien. Take the lockpicks back to Shadowmere. Then you can go."

"If you will it, Listener." The ghost retrieved the pouch as the Breton slid one lockpick and her torsion wrench back into the compartment in her wrist, flicking it shut. As Lucien left the tower, the Breton glanced into the chest. A purse of coins and some scattered jewels lay within. She picked the objects up and held them in the palm of her hand, muttering quietly. The items slowly faded as the Breton's magic slowly transported them away.

She drew her sword, which was enchanted with spells of fire and was called 'Infernius' and proceeded up the stairs.

She met no resistance on the next floor of the tower, and the only visible route was a crude wooden platform nailed to the outside of the tower, presumably placed there by the bandits when the original stairs had crumbled. The Breton took a tentative step out onto the platform, and when she felt it take her weight without breaking, continued up on her way. The platform led straight to the bridge between the two towers.

Seven armed bandits stood upon it.

"Hail, adventurer!"

The voice, deep and booming, rang out across the clear night. It came from a man standing at the top of the second tower. He was colossal, easily six foot eight, and was clad in steel plate armour that made him gleam in the moonlight, as well as a helmet obscuring his facial features. The long handle of a warhammer protruded over his shoulder. He shouted to the Breton again. "Hail! Welcome, welcome to my towers! I am Ragnar Bloodhammer! Who are you, mighty warrior?"

The Breton chuckled. While Bloodhammer had been speaking, she had slowly edged her way along the platform until she was level with the bridge. As Bloodhammer finished talking, she looked up towards him, and shouted. Not in any language Bloodhammer could understand, but in a language more ancient and more powerful than Bloodhammer could imagine.

"FUS RO DAH!"

The Thu'um echoed across the hills, rolling back and forth, as a conical burst of energy projected from the Breton's mouth. It smashed into the bandits stood on the narrow bridge. The first man it hit was flung into the air, falling in a perfect arc before breaking his back on the arch that covered the centre of the bridge with a sickening crack and landing face first on the bridge.

The next two men were blown back, landing heavily on their backs, while the remaining four were merely staggered by the energy. But the Breton had already reached them. As soon as the dragon shout had left her lips she had sprinted forward, Infernius held low by her side. She had reached the arch before the corpse of the first bandit had hit the ground, and beheaded the two grounded men with low, sweeping blows of her sword.

She leapt forward, propelling herself forward on her armoured right foot, pushing Infernius into the skull of a bandit, using his falling corpse to cushion her landing. She carved upwards with her sword, cleaving through the rest of the man's skull, in time to parry a swing from a steel blade. She returned with a swing of her own that the steel sword-wielding bandit only just managed to parry, knocking his sword to the side, allowing the Breton to stab him through the heart, Infernius cleaving through his thick hide armour like a knife through butter. She then lashed out with a kick that brought down one of the bandits temporarily.

A mace and a sword swung towards her from opposite direction. She raised Infernius to parry the sword and raised her free hand towards the mace, channelling her magicka into her hand. A glistening, circular, translucent barrier appeared from her hand, and the mace bounced off it. She clenched her fist, then opened it again, and sparks shot from her hand into the bandit's face. He howled with pain, took a step back, lost his balance and fell from the bridge, plunging into the dark waters of the White River rushing below.

The Breton swung Infernius towards the last bandit on the bridge, but he parried the blow. The two exchanged a series of blows before the Breton swung so hard that Infernius shattered the steel of his blade and decapitated him, his body bursting into flames even as his head rolled away. Before she could react, an arrow slammed into her right pauldron with such force that Infernius was knocked from her grasp, clattering to the bridge with a series of high-pitched crystalline peals.

She scanned her surrounding, searching for the archer. Another arrow flew past, narrowly missing her head, and she followed its path to its source – a single bandit, standing on a narrow outcropping of rock level with the second level of the tower. The Breton channelled her magicka to her palms again, and a ball of pulsating purple-black energy grew between them. She pushed it towards the outcropping, and it vanished, only to reappear, much larger, next to the man.

When the ball faded, a hulking frost atronach stood less than a foot away from the archer. He barely had time to scream before the eight-foot iceman impaled him upon one of its spike-shaped appendages. Blood poured down the atronach's arm, freezing almost instantly upon contact. The Breton flexed her palm towards the atronach and it vanished in another ball of energy.

She moved to retrieve Infernius – as a huge, armoured foot kicked the sword, sending it flying off the bridge into the river. She looked up to see Ragnar Bloodhammer raising his hammer, ready to strike!

"YOL TOOR SHUN!" She yelled, and a gout of fire burst from her mouth, covering Bloodhammer. He staggered in the torrent, roaring with pain. The fire continued, heating Bloodhammer's armour to the point where it scalded his skin. He could think of only one solution, and he acted without thought of the consequences.

The Breton had just cut off the gout of fire when Bloodhammer's immense weight slammed into her. It was like being hit by a giant's club, only hotter – Bloodhammer's steel armour was glowing as a result of the immense heat. The two sailed off the bridge, Bloodhammer keeping a firm grip on the Breton, and fell. The air rushing past screamed in the Breton's ears as the waters rushing towards the waterfall downstream below came closer and closer.

Then, together, they hit it.

Blackness enveloped her.

_Two Hours Later_

The Breton slowly blinked her eyes open. The sun had come up, and it burned her eyes and she rolled onto her front and choked. She had been lucky – the strong currents had washed her to the river banks and prevented her heavy 'light' armour from drowning her. She had lost her helmet, and her black hair was soaked. She checked to see if the two braids worked into the hair near her crown were intact, and pushed herself drunkenly to her feet.

She looked down the beach to see Bloodhammer also struggling to his feet. He had disposed of his armour, revealing a round face, a bushy red beard and tangled red hair. The clothing he wore underneath was sodden, and clung to his massive frame. The Breton was relieved to see her helmet and Infernius lying further down the bank.

She strode over to Bloodhammer, who had just managed to pick himself up, and swung her fist at his face. Normally, she would have broken his nose, but she was still dazed, and her judgement was off. The punch sailed past his face, and the Breton stumbled as the weight of her gauntlet dragged her aside. She was too weak to draw upon her magicka.

Bloodhammer lashed out with his fist, hitting the Breton's cuirass. He roared and grabbed his hand. It looked like he'd broken a few fingers. The Breton kicked out and Bloodhammer fell onto his back. Before he could move, the Breton was astride him, hammering away at his wide face. Blood poured from gashes and cuts, and still the Breton punched, dealing blow after blow. Finally, she held her gauntleted palm above his nose, ready to deliver the final strike.

Bloodhammer attempted to speak through a mouthful of blood and displaced teeth. "Who...whoa re you?"

The Breton grinned at him savagely.

"Emma-May LeFleur. Pleasure to meet you." And with that, she brought the palm down, smashing Bloodhammer's nose and driving a spear of cartilage into his brain, killing him almost instantly.

Emma-May staggered to her feet, walking over to where Infernius and her helm – the helm that had been in her family for generations, ever since her ancestor had fought alongside the last Septim during the Oblivion Crisis – lay, slotting Infernius into its scabbard and placing the helm atop her head once more.

She took one last glance at Bloodhammer's body, then looked out over the landscape, listening to the rushing waters. How had she got here? How had she ended up in the war-torn province of Skyrim, being declared a hero by the same order who had christened Talos centuries before, and being the only one with the power to defeat Alduin, the World-Eater?

Emma-May LeFleur smiled. It had started, as most good stories do, in a brothel...


	3. Chapter 3: Evermore

**Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim ownership of, The Elder Scrolls series, Skyrim, or any property belonging to Bethesda Softworks. **

_17__th__ of Second Seed, 4E 197_

_Evermore, Imperial Province of High Rock_

Madame Amelie's household (never brothel; Amelie despised that word, and you were likely to be thrown headfirst from the door by the burly Orc bouncer should you refer to her business as such) employed four regular girls; Daphne, Fleur, Bellatrix and Emma-May. None had ever professed to enjoy their particular line of work, but they could not deny that it paid well and was a lot less effort than most of the jobs available in Evermore.

Emma-May LeFleur was the youngest girl working with Madame Amelie; she was only twenty-two years old, whereas the next youngest girl, Fleur, was twenty-eight. Emma-May had lived with Amelie, a close friend of her parents, who had been killed during the raid on Wayrest by corsairs in 188. Emma-May had been only thirteen at the time, and despite being a member of one a family that had been one of the longest and most dignified in High Rock, if not all Tamriel, she had no living relatives. The LeFleur bloodline's close ties to the Blades and the Empire had made them priority targets during the Great War against the Thalmor.

With her parent's death, Emma-May was the last of the LeFleur bloodline. And, with no relatives to look after her, Madame Amelie had taken her in, given her a loving household and, once she came of age, a stable, if unorthodox, occupation. She had become something of a surrogate mother to Emma-May; always ready to listen, always handy with advice, never forcing her to do anything she didn't want to.

So Emma-May had settled calmly into her new profession. And now, she sat lazily in a chair, dressed in the revealing clothes that women usually wore to taverns. Fleur was to her left, talking continuously, as was her nature, and Emma-May was half-listening, half-wondering if any customers were actually going to come in today. There was a market being held just outside the city, and most of the citizens were there, trading with the assorted Redguard merchants who had come from Hammerfell to sell their exotic goods.

"...and you know, it just worries me so much! I mean, what with the Nords getting restless, and the Thalmor going around arresting anyone who they don't like the look of...it feels like we're floating on a giant pool of oil, and it would just take one rogue spell to ignite."

"Fleur, you come up with the strangest metaphors." Emma-May cut in for the first time in five minutes. She agreed with most of what Fleur was saying – yes, Tamriel was in a very volatile situation, yes, the situation was only likely to get worse and yes, Hondor the Nord baker made the best pastries and was damned handsome to boot – but having it repeated to her every slow day made her want to scream. She was praying that someone would walk through the door and choose her – or even Fleur. Anything to give her ears a few minutes peace.

But nobody came, and Fleur continued to talk for a good half an hour before she decided she was hungry and went to find some food. Emma-May breathed a sigh of relief and stood, walking across the floor of the spacious living area, past the stairs that lead to the private bedrooms upstairs, and towards Madame Amelie's room. She heard a slight thud, and allowed herself a private smile. Fleur was probably destroying the kitchen again.

"Amelie, I'm quite certain we'll have no custom until the evening." She said in a raised voice, approaching the doorway. "Could I possibly take an hour to-"

Emma-May stopped talking as she took in the sight that met her eyes. Her jaw dropped, her eyes widened and she felt bile rising in her throat.

The woman who had cared for her since her parent's death was lying face down on the floor, her eyes vacant and her mouth stretched into a final, silent scream. Her arms lay outstretched in front of her, and blood poured from a knife-wound in the small of her back, soaking her yellow garment. Standing above her, clutching the bloody dagger that had killed her, was a figure clad in tight leather, obviously female, a cowl covering the lower half of her face. Emma-May looked from the corpse to the hazel eyes visible beneath the cowl. Her sight flickered, and she fought to remain conscious.

Even as she stared, the figure winked, turned, and with great speed leapt through the window she had entered through, landing gracefully outside and beginning to sprint through the streets of Evermore. Emma-May sensed the other girls arriving over her shoulder, heard their screams, but paid them no heed as she pulled at her restricting dress. It fell to the floor, and clad only in her underwear and shoes Emma-May clambered through the window and set off after the assassin.

The assassin was moving with immense speed, and Emma-May struggled to maintain her line of sight. Despite the level of stamina her profession demanded, the assassin might have easily lost her. But Emma-May had lived in Evermore her entire twenty-two years. She knew the city's winding streets like the back of her hand. The assassin was clearly making random turns to try and shake Emma-May while reaching the city gates, and this was slowing her.

But before long the assassin had reached the gates, which were hanging wide open. Two guardsmen were stood idly next to them, and at first they took little notice of the figure running towards them. People were in a hurry sometimes. It was nothing new. But then Emma-May rounded the corner, and, noticing her state of nakedness and the tears streaming from her eyes as she chased the figure in leather led them to believe something was wrong, and they were drawing their swords even as Emma-May yelled, "STOP! ASSASSIN!"

The figure came level with the guards, one of whom swung his sword towards her, hoping to force her to stop. But, quick as a flash, the assassin brought her dagger up, blocked the guard's strike, yanked a second dagger from her belt and drove it through the guard's throat, killing him instantly and causing the sword to fly from his hand. At the same time, she flicked her first dagger towards the second guard, hitting him in the chest and bringing him down.

As the assassin moved to pull her dagger from the guard's lifeless body, Emma-May slowed her pace, snatched up the first guard's fallen sword and held it in her hands. It was heavier than she had expected, and she attempted to look as if she knew what she was doing as she stared at the assassin through tear-stung eyes. The assassin, for her part, simply watched as Emma-May sidestepped in a vague circular motion, before coming to a halt between the assassin and the gate. The assassin stood up, pushing her second dagger back into its sheath, and stared into Emma-May's eyes.

Then, she spoke.

"Run along now, little girl. I don't want to hurt you." Her voice was smooth, like silk, and held a slight Northern tone, that of a Nord woman who wished she wasn't a Nord woman. She looked at Emma-May with her cold hazel eyes, and Emma-May somehow knew that beneath the cowl, she was grinning.

"You killed..." Emma-May tried to speak, but her emotions were overwhelming her, and she stumbled. "You...killed...Amelie..." The hazel eyes rolled, and when the assassin spoke again, a hard, irritated tone had crept into her voice.

"Yes, and I'll kill you if you don't get out of my way, you silly little whore."

"Never..." Emma-May's chest felt tight, and her body was numb, as if she no longer cared whether she lived or died. All the energy in her body was focused on stopping the person before her, the person who had murdered the woman who had raised her. It didn't matter if Emma-May died or not – the assassin had already taken her life. The assassin's eyes narrowed.

"Very well." She snapped, and leapt.

Time seemed to slow for Emma-May. She saw the assassin leap, saw her gracefully twist in the air, moving her dagger into a position to strike. She tried to raise the sword she had taken from the dead guard, but it was too heavy, and she was too slow. She breathed in as the assassin flew towards her, waiting for the pain of the dagger piercing her skull, waiting for the eternal sleep of death, waiting to rejoin her ancestors in whatever afterlife they may enter.

Then, just as the assassin's blade touched the skin above Emma-May's right eye, something hit her, knocking her from her airborne course. Her dagger raked across Emma-May's skin, missing her right eye and continuing a short distance beneath it, before flying away in the opposite direction. Emma-May screamed at the pain; the cut was deep, and blood began seeping from it, trickling into her eye and blinding her.

The assassin, meanwhile, had been flung a short distance away by a fireball thrown by a tall Dunmeri man who had emerged from a nearby building. Even as Emma-May struggled to watch, he conjured another burning sphere and sent it flying towards the assassin, who pushed herself from the ground and out of the fireball's path. Then, holding a hand to the charred patch on her armour, she sprinted towards the gates, throwing her remaining dagger at the mechanism that kept them open, which clicked and spun into action. Emma-May yelled at the Dunmer to stop her, but he just watched as the assassin ran through the gates.

The gates boomed shut behind her.

Emma-May stared in despair at the closed gates, even as a group of guards turned a corner and ran towards her. As she sank to her knees, the true enormity of the events hitting her, she felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see the Dunmer who had saved her life looking down at her. Her vision swam, and, taking a final look into his red eyes, she fell forward, thunder rushing in her eyes as everything went black.

She awoke lying in a bed that was not hers. The sheets were too soft and the blankets were made out of a silky material. She tried to sit up, but her vision blurred, and she felt a hand on her chest. The hand had greyish skin, and a golden ring with a single purple jewel set into it was wrapped around the index finger. The jewel seemed to pulsate in the light, although Emma-May put it down to her dizziness. A wave of pain hit her; it seemed as if someone had taken a red-hot knife and drawn it down her face.

She gasped as the events she had witnessed came back to her in brutal waves of memory. Her heart ached as she remembered Madame Amelie's corpse lying on the carpet, the gates slamming shut behind her escaping killer. A single tear rolled down her cheek. Her reverie was interrupted by a soft voice.

"Try not to move so quickly. You have had a trying ordeal."

She did not recognise the voice, but she could tell it was an elf of some kind. She looked up and saw a grey-skinned face looking down at her, smiling. It was her saviour; the Dunmer who had stopped the assassin's knife plunging into her skull. He took her shoulders in his hands and slowly helped her sit up in the bed. The covers fell away, and she noted that she had been dressed in a soft nightgown to preserve her dignity. Not that she had cared when she had been chasing the assassin, but now she was in more civil surroundings, it felt good to be clothed.

"Where...who..." All her questions attempted to present themselves at once, and managed to compact themselves into those two words. The Dunmer sat down in a seat next to her bed. He was dressed in robes of dark blue, with a hood hanging down across his back. His silver hair was long and well-kept, and his face possessed a certain nobility about it. He smiled, revealing a set of teeth that were slightly sharpened, as was the same for all the Mer of Tamriel.

He spoke again. "You are safe. The guards have allowed me to care for you while they investigate the killer. Once you are back to full strength, I will let you do as you wish." He gestured around him, and Emma-May took in a large bedroom, with simple yet effective decor. A large wardrobe stood in one corner, and light streamed in from three large windows. "As for who, my name is Dorrian Androval, and I am a mage living here in Evermore, where my family have lived ever since we escaped the destruction Red Mountain wreaked upon our homeland."

Emma-May nodded, struggling to take it all in. She looked at Dorrian, who had turned to a desk, and was writing on a piece of parchment with a long feather quill. She swallowed, composing herself for speech. "Do the guards know anything?"

"Unfortunately I am not privy to that information, Miss LeFleur, but my own knowledge of the group that murdered your guardian will allow me to enlighten you to some degree." He turned back to the desk, opening a drawer and pulling out a few pieces of parchment. He cleared his throat and began.

"Some time ago, before the Argonians invaded Morrowind, a state-sanctioned group of assassins operated in and around the province. They were known as the Morag Tong, and were reputedly founded by the Daedra Mephala in order to teach the Chimer, the predecessors of my race, before the War of the First Council. But that's another story." Dorrian chuckled slightly, and continued. "Anyway, the group had a long and complicated history, not least when they not only assassinated Emperor Reman III and his heir at the end of the First Era, but went on to assassinate the Akaviri Potentate who ordered the assassination." Emma-May nodded, trying to keep up with what Dorrian was saying.

He handed her a sheet of parchment. It was a fragment of a book, written in traditional large print. It read:

'_...the Morag Tong was outlawed throughout the continent. Every sovereign gave the cult's elimination his highest priority. Nothing more was officially heard of them for a hundred years._

_It is more difficult to date the Era when the Morag Tong re-emerged as the Dark Brotherhood, especially as other guilds of assassins have sporadically appeared throughout the history of Tamriel...'_

Emma-May handed him the page back, and he continued speaking.

"That is an excerpt from a book called _Brothers of Darkness_, by a Pellarne Assi. It details how, following the incident with the Akaviri Potentate, a group splintered from the Morag Tong, forming a second assassin group; the Dark Brotherhood. Using a very long, very gruesome ritual which I won't go into detail about, one can summon the Dark Brotherhood, who will then charge you money for an assassination." Dorrian paused, swallowing. "Someone paid for your guardian's murder, Miss LeFleur. The person you fought was an assassin of the Dark Brotherhood; I could tell by the armour design, which is unique to them alone."

Emma-May nodded, taking in what Dorrian had told her. A burning desire to find the person who ordered the killing of Madame Amelie began to grow in her heart. She swallowed, and spoke. "So what can I do now? I can't go back to the household..."

Dorrian raised his eyebrows. "It's out of my hands, Miss LeFleur. I should imagine that once you're back to health, you'll have to bury your guardian for a start. Not to mention the settling of her assets. It will no doubt be a long and arduous process." He replaced the papers in his hands in the desk. "As for me, I'm leaving Evermore within the week. I have a cabin in the countryside, and quite frankly, these events have caused certain memories to resurface." Just for a moment, Dorrian's eyes took on a haunted look, before they reverted to their previous warmth.

Emma-May's thoughts were racing. On one hand, she knew the proper thing to do would be to stay and pay her last respects to Madame Amelie, before settling the affairs (and, considering Amelie's childless state and her own position, prospectively inheriting a large chunk of Amelie's assets) and settling down in Evermore again to live out the rest of her life quietly.

But on the other hand, she wanted revenge. She wanted to hunt down those who had brought her world crashing down around her, not only orphaning her again, but putting the girls she had worked with out of a job. And while she knew she didn't have the combat skills to do such a thing at the moment, Dorrian did. She had to ask. She wouldn't feel at peace until she did.

"Dorrian...I want to get them. All of them."

"Excuse me?"

"I want to hunt down the ones who killed her." Emma-May was breathing steadily, but her heart was pounding in anticipation of his reaction. "But I can't take them like this. Will you teach me, Dorrian? Can you teach me to fight them?"

Dorrian looked her up and down, then smiled.

"I was hoping you'd say that. Get some things together, we leave in two hours."


	4. Chapter 4: Begun Anew

**Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim ownership of, The Elder Scrolls series, Skyrim, or any property belonging to Bethesda Softworks. **

_17__th__ of Second Seed, 4E 198_

_Somewhere In Eastern High Rock_

It had been a long year, Emma-May LeFleur thought as she stared at her reflection in the deep pool. On this day, last year, her world had come crashing down around her. She had spent the past three hundred and sixty-five days building it up again, surrounded by lush countryside, having no contact with any living creature save the wild animals, the occasional centaur, which always made for an interesting encounter, and, of course, her saviour, Dorrian Androval.

She wasn't entirely sure where the cabin Dorrian owned was in High Rock. It was in the East, she knew that much, and was about eighteen hours ride from Evermore. Apart from that, all she knew was the cabin was small, yet homely, even if it could get somewhat cold in winter, and it was atop a knoll covered in trees, containing the deep, clear pool that she was now staring into, pondering the past year and the events that had brought her to this place. She brushed her hand across the surface of the water and ripples washed over her reflection, distorting it.

When the water settled, she examined the face of the girl – no, of the woman – reflected back at her. In the year since her departure from Evermore, she felt she had matured significantly. The immature prostitute content to laze around for days and earn a living on her back was gone, replaced with a woman used to waking early and retiring late, used to physical activity and intense study. Her hair, which had once been beautifully styled daily, was now cut to shoulder length and tied back in a simple ponytail with a piece of twine, and her clothes, which had once been provocative and inviting, were now limited to simple and functional trousers, jerkins and robes. Her eyes had taken on a more serious and withdrawn look. And, of course, there was the straight, raised scar that formed a line above and below her right eye.

Her old identity was gone. She had begun anew.

She stood, turning away from the pool, and made her way through the trees towards Dorrian's hut. During her first month or so she had a tendency to get lost, even though the forest the covered the knoll was fairly small. In the end, Dorrian had taught her a spell that caused a glittering gold trail to lead her. She knew the way so well these days that she didn't need it anymore, but still occasionally cast it; as Dorrian said, if you didn't practice a spell every now and again, you'd come to regret it in a situation when you needed it. That was the beauty of magic, he was fond of saying – that there was a spell for every occasion, so long as you understood the basic principles.

In order to pursue those who had killed Amelie, Emma-May had known she'd need a great deal of power. She remembered even now the agility and strength of the assassin, so great that it had seemed almost inhuman. To that end, Dorrian had began teaching her magic a week after she had arrived, starting with simple, novice spells and working upwards. Dorrian's grasp of the Destruction school was formidable, and he could more than hold his own in the other schools of magic, although since the school of Mysticism had become obsolete and its spells merged with the schools of Alteration and Illusion, he had to reclassify a lot of his knowledge to fit the new system.

Had the Mages Guild not been dissolved following the Oblivion Crisis, Dorrian reckoned that Emma-May would have held the rank of Journeyman in all five schools of magic, or, if using the more modern and detailed system in use at the ancient College of Winterhold in the far north of Skyrim, an Adept in Conjuration, Destruction and Restoration, and an Apprentice in Alteration and Illusion. Conjuration came incredibly naturally to her – Dorrian theorised that this was because she was a Breton, and therefore inclined to a certain school of magic over the others – and while she also made rapid progress in the schools of Destruction and Restoration, she struggled with the world-altering effects of Alteration. As for Illusion, it had held little interest to her until Dorrian had notified her that it included invisibility spells.

She'd tried harder after that.

As well as training her in the schools of magic, Dorrian had conveyed his limited knowledge of melee combat to her. Dorrian was a very weak fighter, considering melee combat brutish and uncivilised compared with the complexity of magic, but Emma-May saw a certain beauty in the smooth, curving movements one performed during swordplay. She had extensively studied Dorrian's battered copy of _The Battle Of Sancre Tor, _and practised the techniques detailed within on a dummy that Dorrian had made for her out of a sack stuffed with hay, a bucket and two branches. As a result, she was much more advanced in the sword than he, and could hold her own in hand-to-hand combat too, although his complicated Dunmer palm strikes and his superior elven agility meant the fights often went in his favour.

She reached the clearing in which the cabin sat. It was a single-storey wooden affair, with two simple bedrooms, a living area and a small storage cupboard. Dorrian cooked over a fire pit under a porch outside, usually serving whatever animal Emma-May had killed that day with some wild herbs and spices. Emma-May had tried cooking at first, but soon discovered she was a dreadful cook, and decided that she'd leave it to Dorrian from now on. He was there now, stirring a pot of rabbit meat and rosemary. As Emma-May approached, he looked up, smiled, and set the stirring spoon down.

"Ah, you're back. Did you enjoy your bath?"

"I didn't bathe. I got caught up looking at my own reflection and lost track of time."

Dorrian laughed, shaking his head, his long silver hair swaying slightly with the motion. "Your capacity for vanity is astounding, Emma-May." He moved towards the cabin, gesturing to her. "Come. I have something to show you." He strode through the door, Emma-May following him into the living area. It was a small space, containing only two chairs, a table, two tall bookshelves crammed with books and a large wooden chest. Dorrian took a piece of paper from the table, and held it out to Emma-May.

"This arrived while you were out, by way of a Redguard courier. He's a courier an associate of mine has used many times, and is one of the few people I trust with the location of this cabin." Emma-May examined the letter, covered in spindly handwriting. It read:

_Androval,_

_Acting on the information you sent me last year, I've discovered a pattern to the recent contracts the Brotherhood have accepted. Ever since the woman we suspect was the Listener fell in Bravil in 188, the contracts that have taken place can only have been passed on by word-of-mouth. In other words, the Sacrament no longer works – there is no Listener._

_Furthermore, ever since you used the chaos in Wayrest to destroy the Sanctuary there, the assassinations have been reduced to a much smaller area. The assassination in Evermore you told me about was the last piece of the puzzle – I've triangulated the spread of attacks since Wayrest and deduced that they can only have come from somewhere in Southern Skyrim, most likely the forests near Falkreath._

_You can relay this information to your young protégé. I'm sure she'll be delighted to find out where the people who murdered her guardian reside._

_Yours,_

_Torline_

_P.S If I know you, you've made a complete hash of her sword training. Send her to me – she'll need the skill to defeat those vile bastards._

Emma-May read the letter twice, then read the second paragraph a further four times before it sank in. Dorrian had fought during the corsair attack that her parents had died in; what's more, he had fought against the Dark Brotherhood there, destroyed one of their so-called 'Sanctuaries'. What wasn't he telling her? What was the Sacrament, and who was a listener? And who was Torline?

Dorrian, meanwhile, had produced a book from the bookshelves, bearing a strange symbol on the front that Emma-May recognised as the emblem of the defunct school of Mysticism. He placed it on the table and looked at her, as if waiting for her to speak. When she didn't, he leant against the table and gazed directly into her eyes, his red meeting her blue. "Ask your questions now, for this may be the last chance we get."

"I'll start from the beginning, then. Who are you?" Emma-May's tone was slightly sharp. For the past year, she'd thought she'd grown to know Dorrian. Only now did it occur to her that he had only briefly mentioned his past, and that lacking such knowledge, she knew barely anything about him at all. Dorrian gestured at a chair, and when she remained standing and glaring at him, he sighed and heavily sat down himself.

"Elves live a long time, Emma-May, a lot longer than men. My parents, for example, sustained their lives for about a hundred and fifty years, and I myself am seventy-eight years old." Emma-May didn't show it, but she was slightly surprised; Dorrian didn't look any older than forty, maybe forty-five. "To that end, my parents and their parents before them were alive long before the Red Year and the Argonian invasion of my homeland, and all of them served the Morag Tong."

"The Morag Tong? Weren't they..."

"Yes." Dorrian rolled up his sleeve, revealing a tattoo of an elaborate Elven symbol. "While the Morag Tong disbanded following the invasion, my family have never stopped battling against the Dark Brotherhood. The Tong always felt a sense of responsibility for the atrocities the Brotherhood have performed, seeing as their roots lie with us." Dorrian rolled his sleeve down again, and returned to gazing into Emma-May's eyes. "When the corsairs attacked Wayrest ten years ago, I saw my chance. To my knowledge, at that time, the Wayrest Sanctuary was one of only three left in Tamriel. And yes, while it is commonly thought that those same corsairs destroyed the Sanctuary, it was in fact me. Following that, I left for Evermore, where I resided until we met last year."

Emma-May shifted, then sat down in the other chair, facing Dorrian. "And you've been training me to strike out at the Dark Brotherhood? To be an agent of the Tong?"

"Yes and no. Call us racists, but only Dark Elves were ever accepted into the Morag Tong, and then only those born in Morrowind. There was even a serious dispute as to whether they should let the Nerevarine join about two hundred and thirty years ago, and he was the reincarnation of a mighty Dunmer hero. Well," He paused, and chuckled. "If you believe that sort of thing, anyway. But yes, I am training you with Morag Tong methods to hunt the Brotherhood. However, unless I have been mistaken for this past year, I believed that was what you wanted?"

Emma-May nodded. "Of course. But why didn't you tell me any of this?"

"It wasn't really relevant, Emma-May. Even now, has it greatly changed things?" Dorrian had a small, patient smile on his face.

"Well, no, but-" Her face flushing, Emma-May quickly changed the subject. "Who's Torline, then? Another Morag Tong agent?" Dorrian shook his head.

"No, Daron Torline is a Redguard, an enemy of the Brotherhood and an old friend of mine. It was he who provided the information on the Wayrest sanctuary ten years ago. He lives as a nomad in the Alik'r desert in Hammerfell, and is a master of the sword." He paused. "He wishes for me to send you to him."

"And will you?" Emma-May asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I see no reason why not. You've learnt all I can teach you, save for one nugget of wisdom I've not yet imparted." He gestured to the book on the table. "There's no better swordsman in Hammerfell and I daresay in a large chunk of Tamriel than Daron Torline, and as you've noticed, there's very little I can teach you in the way of combat, save for that palm strike I showed you last week." He picked up the book. "Do you wish to go?"

"I-I..." Emma-May wasn't sure what to say. On one hand, she wanted to be as prepared as she possibly could for her confrontation with the Dark Brotherhood, and learning from a Redguard blademaster seemed as good a way as any to further prepare her. On the other hand, Dorrian had been her best friend for the last year, and she was somewhat reluctant to leave him. "If I go, will we ever see each other again?"

"I daresay we will. It may take many years, Emma-May LeFleur, but I swear on my honour as a Dunmer that we will meet again." He picked up the book, and passed it to her. "If you will leave, then it should be first thing tomorrow morning. I can provide enough provisions to get you to Evermore, and I'm sure you can pick up some more when you get there." He gestured at the book in her hands. "As for your final training, that book contains my collected knowledge of the Vvardenfellian art of Mark and Recall."

"Mark and Recall?"

Dorrian nodded. "Centuries ago, there was a Mysticism spell that would allow one to mark a certain spot and, with the appropriate spell, instantly teleport back whenever they wanted. You must understand that this was one of the more closely guarded secrets of the Dunmer, and you'd never see it outside of Morrowind. They even wiped the spell from the minds of any leaving Morrowind, and hunted down any who slipped through the net."

Emma-May was taken aback. "You mean, with the knowledge in this book-" She held it up. "-I'll be able to teleport to a spot I mark?"

Dorrian shook his head. "Unfortunately not. The incantations in that book will only allow you to transport objects, and even at a great drain on your magicka. It may still come in useful, however, and I would greatly advise learning it." He placed his hand on the table and whispered a spell, then took the book from Emma-May and whispered again. The book slowly faded as he whispered, re-appearing on the table. Dorrian smiled. "You see? Now you try..."

They practised long after the sun went down, until finally Dorrian stood up from his chair and said, "It is late, Emma-May, and you must be up early in the morning to begin your journey. Go, rest. I will see you at first light."

Emma-May stood up, her heart heavy as she walked towards her bedroom, away from her last night of training with the man who had saved her life and been a friend to her for the past year. Now she was leaving, leaving for another province, to learn from a man she had never met. Only now did she realised she'd felt more purpose over the last year than ever before.

She took a long time to fall asleep.

**A/N: Seeing as I've got a regular reader (much loves, distant-echoes) I figured I should start doing these. I know it seems this chapter ends quite abruptly, but I didn't want to squeeze Emma-May's departure on the end. Rest assured, her journey to Hammerfell will fill up at least a couple of chapters. Eventful it will be!**


	5. Chapter 5: Homecoming

**Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim ownership of, The Elder Scrolls series, Skyrim, or any property belonging to Bethesda Softworks. **

_18__th__ of Second Seed, 4E 198_

_Somewhere In Eastern High Rock_

Emma-May woke early that morning. The sun was just beginning to crest the hills to the East as she climbed out of her bed, reaching for the clothes she had put aside the night before. They were clothes to travel in; some simple, light brown trousers, with a padded shirt underneath and a thick robe that went down to her calves in the same light brown as the trousers, complete with hood.

She looked around at the room she had slept in for the past year, at the small table, which usually had a book or two piled upon it, ready to be resumed at any point, but which was now unusually bare; the simple bed with its ruffled covers, which she quickly set about straightening and making as she did every morning; the chest of drawers which had once contained her clothes, but was now empty, her clothes packed into saddlebags the night before.

She reached for the pack Dorrian had showed her how to make. It contained a few books, some spare clothes, and, strapped to the side, the sword that she had retrieved from the slain guard all that time ago in Evermore. Dorrian had taken it before they had left for the cabin, and Emma-May had quickly adopted it as her own. It seemed appropriate to her that she used the weapon to hunt down the guard's killer.

Hoisting the pack onto her shoulders, she left the room, feeling a pang of sadness as she shut the door for the last time. Dorrian was already up and dressed, as always; he slept lightly and rose early, often long before Emma-May had even thought of waking up. He smiled as he saw her, the smile accentuating his high elven cheekbones as they always did. The thought that it might be the last time she saw that smile made Emma-May want to cry, but she swallowed back the tears as she sat down to eat the breakfast of bread and goat's cheese that Dorrian had set out for her.

As she ate, Dorrian spoke. "I've already saddled up your horse ready for you. There's enough provisions in there for you to reach Evermore, factoring in an overnight stop. Unless you intend to travel straight there." He chuckled. "Which, knowing you, isn't unlikely. I've also provided you with a hundred drakes – septims, sorry-" He said, correcting his Dunmer slang. "-which you can use to buy more provisions in Evermore." Emma-May nearly choked on her mouthful of bread.

"A hundred septims?" She spluttered. That was much more money than she needed, or, she suspected, that Dorrian could afford to give from the kitty which he used to barter with the traders that often passed by on the road, a half-hour's ride away. "Dorrian, that's –"

"Plenty of money to get you at least past the Hammerfell border." Dorrian smiled at her, his voice patient as always. "And before you protest for my well-being, understand that I will not be spending much more time in this cabin myself. I have business to attend to in the outside world, and cannot afford to spend anymore time as a recluse." He took her plate as she ate her last bite of cheese and stood up from the chair. "So please, do not worry about the money. It is insignificant when compared to the importance of getting you safely to Hammerfell and to Daron."

Emma-May still wasn't happy about taking the money, but did not protest anymore, instead walking to the door, another pang of sadness rushing through her heart as she exited. It was dim outside, the sun still not fully risen. Dorrian followed her, helping her to mount Ruhn, the second of Dorrian's horses, a handsome bay which Emma-May had grown very fond of during her time at the cabin. She settled into the saddle, placing her legs between the saddlebags, as Dorrian spoke again.

"You should spend the night in Evermore; you could rent a room, but I'm sure you can find someone who'll let you stay. You lived there for twenty years after all." He laughed softly as he handed her a large, rolled up scroll. She unravelled it to reveal a map of Tamiel, richly detailed, with all the main roads marked. He reached up to her elevated position atop the horse and pointed with his finger. "Heading west from here you'll reach the trader road, which you follow to Evermore. From Evermore, follow this road South East to the city of Dragonstar. It's divided into two parts, East and West. You'll want to enter the Western sector, as it's still governed by Hammerfell. Once you're there, ask around; Daron is well know around those parts, and I'm sure you'll find someone who can point you to him."

Emma May smiled at him and rolled up the map. A single tear trickled from her cheek as she stuffed it into a saddlebag, taking care to make sure she didn't tear it. Dorrian looked at her, his ever present smile and patient tone serving only to intensify Emma-May's tears.

"I'll miss you, Dorrian. You have no idea how grateful I am." She pulled her feet from the stirrups and leapt down from Ruhn, the pack on her back almost pulling her over with the sudden movement, and threw her arms around him. He embraced her, patting her on the back, as her tears trickled onto his shoulder.

"I do, Emma-May, believe me." He broke the hug, placing his hand on her shoulder and looking into her eyes, his long silver hair moving in the slight breeze. "I've seen you grow so much over the past year, and I fully believe that if anyone can take on the Dark Brotherhood, it's you." He patted her shoulder and helped her back onto Ruhn again as she wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her robe. "We will meet again, Emma-May. I said it last night, and I will say it again, for the gods will watch over us both." He patted Ruhn's flank. "Now go on. You have a long journey ahead of you."

She nodded. "Farewell, Dorrian Androval."

"Farewell, Emma-May LeFleur. Learn well, and never give in." He raised his hand in farewell, and she returned the gesture as she kicked Ruhn and he began to canter, taking her into the dark woodland surrounding the cabin.

She watched it for as long as possible before it was swallowed up by the trees and she turned her gaze to the route ahead.

The sun had fully risen by the time she left the forests behind, about half an hour after her departure. She could see the road, a dark line cutting the countryside in two, just ahead, and slowed Ruhn's canter to a trot. Now she was out of the forests, she could afford to move much slower. Although the sun was up, it was unseasonably cold for the month, and Emma-May chose to keep her heavy robe on, glad for the warmth it provided. She let her hands leave the reins for a moment to pull the fur-lined hood up over her head, covering her simple ponytail and warming her ears.

Once she reached the road, she spurred Ruhn on again, moving back to a canter. She wanted to cover as much ground as possible in as little time as possible, but dared not move to a full gallop for fear of exhausting Ruhn before they were even halfway. It had taken her and Dorrian eighteen hours to reach the cabin from Evermore when they had set out the year before, but she had been tired and wounded, and unused to riding a horse, and their travelling speed had been nowhere near as high as Emma-May's was now. She figured it would take ten hours at most to reach Evermore, following the road, factoring in a small break to let Ruhn drink, eat, and relieve herself.

In fact, it took her only eight hours to reach Evermore, the late afternoon sun low in the West as she approached the familiar walls of the city she had grown up in. As she approached the stables outside the city to tie up Ruhn, she noticed at least ten armed guards manning various positions around the gate the assassin had escaped through last year. The gates were open now, and Emma-May felt the scar across her eye twinge as she looked upon the square where she had confronted the killer. Evidently the city guard had not forgotten letting the murderer slip through their fingers.

After paying a stable hand a septim to tie up Ruhn, she tightened her pack on her shoulders and pulled her hood down as she approached the gates. She had half expected to be confronted, but she received only sidewards glances from the bored-looking guards as she entered the city, hurrying through the square, not wanting to spend any more time than necessary in that place. She thought she might have seen one of the guards look at the sheathed sword strapped to her pack, a glimmer of recognition in his eye, but she passed it off as her own paranoia as she walked further into the city.

She decided to head for the local inn, the Jagged Crown, owned, if she remembered correctly, by Hafnir, brother of Hondor, the Nord baker Fleur had admired so often. As she strode through familiar streets, she glanced down one particular street. She knew if went down that road, turned left, right, and left again, she would reach Madame Amelie's household, where her life had come crashing down around her all that time ago. She hurried onwards, determined not to let such things bother her. She turned down the street that the Jagged Crown lay on, barely noticing the woman leaning against the wall on the corner until she felt a hand grab her shoulder and pull her back.

She twisted, reaching for her sword, fearing an attack, only to find herself looking into the pretty face of Bellatrix, one of the girls who had worked with her at Amelie's. The blonde-haired woman was still dressed in the clothes of her trade, but something had changed; she looked more withdrawn, and there was a certain tiredness in her eyes that had never been apparent when Emma-May had known her.

"Bellatrix!" Emma-May exclaimed, smiling broadly at the older woman. To her dismay, Bellatrix did not smile back, but instead adopted an expression of panic and shock.

"By the Divines, Emma-May...you can't be here. You're in danger." Her voice was low and urgent, and she grabbed Emma-May by the hand in a vice-like grip.

Emma-May frowned. "What do you mean, danger? What are you talking about?" Bellatrix simply pulled her away, talking once again as she practically dragged Emma-May away from the Jagged Crown and towards a small sidestreet.

"We can't talk here. Come on, pull your hood up. I'm shacked up with another of the old girls."

"Fleur?" Emma-May asked as she did so, concealing most of her face once again.

"Fleur...Dibella's name, you don't know anything." Emma-May's eyes widened and she opened her mouth to speak, but Bellatrix shushed her and continued to pull her, moving deeper into the backstreets of the city, an area Emma-May had known to keep well away from. People huddled in doorways, dressed in ragged clothing, and gangs of rough-looking men were commonplace. Strangely, they all made way for Bellatrix, even though most of them looked like they could snap her in half with their little fingers. Emma-May scrutinised their faces. Did she detect pity in the eyes of these vagabonds as they looked at Bellatrix?

They reached an small, run-down, single-storey house. Bellatrix hurriedly knocked on the door, and it opened, revealing Daphne, the oldest of Madame Amelie's girls – former girls, Emma-May reminded herself – who frowned at Bellatrix.

"Bella, you're not even halfway through your shift. What are you-" Daphne stopped and her eyes widened as Bellatrix grabbed Emma-May's hood and pulled it down, revealing her face again. "Oh no. Oh gods no. Get inside, quickly." Emma-May found herself being practically thrown into the dingy living room, Bellatrix slamming the door behind them.

The two girls had clearly tried to make the best of what they had, and everything was very tidy, but as the old saying went, you could dress an Orc in the finest of clothing, but it'd still be an Orc. The room was cramped, there was damp setting in, and the entire place looked like it should be knocked down before it fell down. Daphne had sat down on a hard wooden chair, and gestured to Emma-May to sit on the other. Bellatrix seemed content with standing; as content as she could possibly be with the evident shock of seeing Emma-May.

An awkward silence had set in, and Bellatrix quickly strived to break it. "What in Oblivion are you doing here, Emma-May?"

"I'm just passing through, on my way to Hamm – wait, never mind me. What's going on here? Why do you live here? What happened to the household?" Emma-May had to bite her tongue in order to stop the torrent of questions pouring out of her mouth to give Daphne an opportunity to speak.

"I'll start from the beginning, Emma-May. Settle in, it's a long story." The brunette woman had the same visage as Bellatrix; tired, worn out, and defeated. She breathed in deeply, adjusted her dress, and began. "Last year, when Amelie died and you disappeared, things started to go wrong for us very quickly. Firstly, there was the fact that the city guard, taking into account that you had vanished shortly after Amelie was murdered, suspected that you might have had something to do with it."

"What?" Emma-May said, failing to keep the shock out of her voice. Daphne held up her hand, silencing her, and continued.

"That's how we reacted, but the seed of doubt had been sown in the minds of the guards, and they continued to treat you as a suspicious party while they carried out their investigation into the murder. It was then that _he _arrived." Daphne spat the word 'he' out as if it were a swear word, the scorn clear in her voice. "He came from Fairne, the town not far from here. His name was Jacques, Jacques Dufrais, and he claimed to be Amelie's cousin." Daphne took a breath as Bellatrix cut in.

"Of course, he had papers to prove the legitimacy as his claim, and we all knew that Dufrais was Amelie's surname." Emma-May nodded; Amelie being her adopted mother, she had known since early on. "And of course, having heard of Amelie's passing, he'd come to claim her assets. Unfortunately for him, the guard had yet to find any will of Amelie's, and they refused to pass on her assets to him until they were satisfied that no such document existed."

"And did it?" Emma-May asked. Bellatrix walked away, over to a sideboard with a jug of water obviously taken from a well outside, which she poured into three iron tankards. Daphne continued while Bellatrix did so.

Daphne nodded. "Yes, it did, and unsurprisingly, it left everything to you. Of course, you weren't around, but the guard still argued that you could return at any time. Jacques grew more and more frustrated, but the guard held firm." She took the tankard Bellatrix offered her, as did Emma-May, taking a large swig of the cool water within. It tasted slightly stale, but it was enough to soothe her throat after riding for so long. "Then, after about three weeks, the captain of the guard suddenly relented."

"We don't know what Jacques did." Bellatrix said, her face set in an expression akin to bereavement. "He might have bribed the captain, or blackmailed him. But he arrived one day with a group of henchmen and told us that the will had been bypassed and Amelie's estate was now his. Then he said we had twenty-four hours to leave the house. He didn't care what we did, so long as we were off his property. Those were his exact words." Bellatrix suddenly sobbed, as the waves of memory came back to her. A growing sense of dread filled Emma-May as she realised that, sad as it was, this wasn't enough to make Bellatrix, who had always been a strong character, react in such a way. Something worse was coming, and Emma-May had a horrifying suspicion of what it was. Daphne, who looked to be holding back tears herself, continued in Bellatrix's stead.

"Of course, Fleur, who had been devastated by Amelie's death and your disappearance – you were like a sister to her – wouldn't stand for it. She let Jacques have it. I'd never heard her so angry, so full of rage, and when she was finished insulting him, and it looked like she was going to relent, she flung herself at him." A tear began to make its way down Daphne's face, as she failed to hold back the emotions this particular tale was bringing forth. "His henchmen grabbed her. Jacques signalled, and they pulled her to the ground, and held her down, covering her mouth to muffle her screams. And that, that..." Daphne choked on her words. "...that monster, he cut her clothes away, and he...he..."

The tears became a torrent, running down Daphne's face, huge sobs coming from both her and Bellatrix, who had slumped to the floor. Emma-May was close to tears herself. "And when he was finished, he took a sword, and beheaded her." Daphne broke down as she remembered the blood that had spurted forth from the naked corpse, Fleur's lifeless eyes staring up at her. Fleur, so naive, so girly...dead.

Emma-May felt numb. Silent tears were running down her cheeks, but she didn't feel them. All she could feel was a maelstrom of sadness, and loss, and mourning, tearing her up from within. Fleur was gone. And it was all her fault. If only she had stayed, instead of chasing after the assassin, then she never would have left, Fleur would still be alive, and Daphne and Bellatrix wouldn't be living in poverty.

"We ran." Bellatrix had managed to speak, but her voice was low and emotionless. "We just ran, in only the clothes on our back. We had nothing, nothing but the image of Fleur burned into our minds. We've made a living for ourselves doing what we always did, but we've never been able to make much, lest we run into Jacques again. We told the guards, but they said that Jacques had acted in self-defense. They disbelieved the rape entirely, thinking it nothing more than the overactive imaginations of two bitter whores." She looked into Emma-May's eyes. "Forty septims. That's how much he paid. Forty septims for killing Fleur."

When Emma-May didn't respond, Daphne, who had gathered herself somewhat, spoke again. "And now you're back. But there's nothing you can do. Jacques is too strong. He has friends everywhere. If he finds out you, the actual heir, is back, he will have you hunted down and killed. Please, Emma-May, you have to leave Evermore, and you have to do it now!"

"No."

Emma-May had stood up. Her voice was low and emotionless, but her deep hazel eyes were filled with one thing. Rage. Pure, unadulterated hatred for the man who had taken everything from her friends.

"Emma, you can't-"

"I said no." And with that, sparks appeared around Emma-May's hands, causing a strobing blue light to flash around the room. "Wait here. I'll be back."

"Emma-May..."

But Daphne was speaking to nobody. Emma-May had already left, exiting into the streets of Evermore, and she was looking for Jacques Dufrais.

**A/N: I enjoyed writing this chapter, right up until I had to write about Fleur. I'd wanted to keep her alive, but the truth was, we never got to know Bellatrix or Daphne, and Fleur was the only one who would truly have stood up to that complete monster Jacques Dufrais. I'm greatly looking forward to the next chapter. Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6: A Foolish Endeavour

**Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim ownership of, The Elder Scrolls series, Skyrim, or any property belonging to Bethesda Softworks. Of course, if I did, I wouldn't be making a WoWClone MMO out of it.**

_18__th__ of Second Seed, 4E 198_

_Evermore, High Rock_

Emma-May LeFleur stormed out, past the vagabonds and the thugs, through the dirty backstreets that the man she was hunting had consigned her friends to. Gradually, her surroundings grew cleaner and tidier, until she finally found herself back in the area of Evermore she knew and grew up in. More importantly, she knew the way from here to Madam Amelie's household, in which she would find the evil being who had slaughtered one of her best friends like a pig.

She had considered going to the guards and presenting herself as the rightful heir to Amelie's estate. After all, she could do with the backup against a man who, if Bellatrix and Daphne had been accurate in their descriptions, was protected by several men and had no qualms about killing people who got in his way, male or female. However, she had discarded the idea after remembering that the captain of the guard, who she doubted had changed in year, had already signed over Amelie's assets to Jacques Dufrais. Whatever hold Dufrais had over the captain might still apply to this situation. And what had Daphne said about the guards considering her suspicious? She'd probably just wind up in the dungeons – or worse.

No, she had to do this alone. Emma-May wasn't all that bothered about what happened afterwards, whether she was exiled from Evermore, or had to make an escape similar to the assassin's escape a year before. _At least she'd had a demonstration, _she thought, a grim smile briefly touching her lips. She continued through Evermore's winding streets, effortlessly navigating her way back to the house she had grown up in.

Past the Jagged Crown. Through the market, listening to the traders loudly advertising their wares. Past Hondor's bakery. She bumped into several people as she pressed on, eliciting several angry shouts. Emma-May ignored every one. She was set on her path, more a force than a person now, and nothing would come between her and her goal. A legion of Dark Brotherhood assassins couldn't stop her in this state.

And then she was there. She looked upon the house she had grown up in. The exterior hadn't changed much, although she noticed various signs of wear and tear that Amelie would never have allowed to happen. Apparently her cousin wasn't as house-proud as Amelie had been when she was alive. Emma-May strode up to the house, approaching the double front doors. The paint was flaking off them. She narrowed her eyes. She'd never liked those doors.

She breathed in, flexed her palms, and concentrated.

Although she couldn't have known it, Emma-May and Jacques Dufrais had come within one hundred meters of each other before Emma-May had even known of Dufrais' existence, let alone his crimes. As Bellatrix had whisked Emma-May away from the Jagged Crown, Jacques Dufrais was exiting the tavern, having just had a discussion with an influential member of the city's populace about getting some cheap labourers – Argonians, most likely – to make some minor repairs on his cousin's house.

Dufrais was accompanied, as always, by his three manservants, Artemis, Elan and Maurice. They had been under his employment ever since he had left his home village of Fairne the year before, having decided he might need some loyal men to help him remove any difficulties he may have had in securing his deceased cousin's estate. Sure enough, they had all come in handy, especially when it came to removing some of his cousin's unwanted furniture; not to mention Artemis' acquisition of the diary of a Khajjit woman detailing her exploits with the married captain of the guard. All three were Bretons – Jacques didn't appreciate the presence of foreigners in his homeland, and he was somewhat glad that the decline of the Empire was reducing the influx of such intruders into High Rock.

Jacques, being a paranoid man, had also ensured they were all armed. Artemis was an accomplished mage, on par with some of the most skilled Breton wizards, Elan was an expert swordsman and could out-fence the combined efforts of the other two, and Maurice...well, Maurice was an excellent cook, and could just about hold his own in a sword fight. These were the three men any person wanting to harm Jacques Dufrais would have to get through.

Dufrais and his entourage walked their usual route through the streets of Evermore to Jacques' house, returning the nods and greetings they received along the way. Very few knew the exact circumstances of Jacques' move into the city; most saw him as a sympathetic character, a man who had lost his only living relation and come to Evermore to be closer to her grave and hold on to the few memories he had of her.

It couldn't have gone better, Jacques often thought. And the forty septims he had paid for the enjoyable time he had had with one of Amelie's employees had been well worth it to ensure the other two never troubled him again. As for Amelie's original heir, her adopted daughter, she hadn't been seen in Evermore for the best part of a year, and hadn't been seen in Dufrais' thoughts for about nine months.

They reached the house, Jacques again scrutinising the grand structure his cousin had inhabited. It was looking a lot rougher than usual, and Jacques was glad that he'd soon have some filthy lizards fixing the damage for next-to-nothing. Jacques waited while Elan unlocked the front door and strode in, Elan taking his fine coat from him as he entered. He walked through to the parlour and settled in his favourite armchair, resting his feet on a fat pouffe.

"Is there anything we can do, Mr Dufrais?" Elan asked, Artemis and Maurice hovering behind him. Jacques nodded.

"I'd like a fire, some of the Tamika Vintage, and perhaps some of those delicious honey nut treats you baked yesterday, Maurice."

"Certainly, sir." As Maurice and Elan scurried away, Artemis pointed at the hearth. Fire shot from his fingers, igniting the neatly piled logs within. The fire grew rapidly, filling the room with warmth and a pleasant crackling. Artemis bowed and left the room, intending to go to his quarters and practice his ward spells, which were somewhat weak. He passed the kitchen, where Maurice was busy baking. Passed the door leading to the wine cellar, listening to Elan clinking around within. He reached the front door, intending to take a right up the stairs leading to his room.

And then the front door exploded.

As soon as the firebolt left her hands, Emma-May changed the spell she was projecting, covering the doorframe in a thick layer of magical ice to prevent any fires taking hold on the wood. Then she strode through the doorway, stepping past the man slumped against the wall, blood oozing from a gash on his forehead where one of the doors had hit him and his blue robe smouldering from the heat. Although she didn't know it, Emma-May had, quite by accident, knocked out her most dangerous opponent – Artemis, her magical superior.

The explosion had been heard all over the house. In the kitchen, Maurice swore as the saucepan containing the mixture for his honey-nut treats clattered to the floor, spilling its contents over the tiles. He picked up the heavy pan and cautiously moved towards the kitchen door, wondering what could have caused such a racket. In the wine cellar, Elan jumped, knocking several bottles of wine from the racks. They smashed to the floor, dark wine leaking from the piles of broken glass. Elan gathered his wits, and pulled his long steel sword from the sheath at his waist. Then he sprinted towards the stairs.

It was Elan who Emma-May encountered first. As she strode down the hallway, he barrelled out of the door leading down the wine cellar. He started as he saw her, giving her a split second to channel magicka to her hands and blast him with a quick bolt of lightning. He ducked quickly, and the bolt flashed over his head, striking a revolting vase and shattering it. Knowing that Elan would kill her before she could cast another spell, she quickly yanked her sword from her pack, extracting it from the sheath tied to her pack. She shrugged the pack off, placing it to the ground, knowing it would only slow her down. She settled into a combat stance.

Elan struck. Emma-May barely had time to parry; the manservant's strike was lighting-fast and would have taken her head from her shoulders had she not parried. Elan was quick to follow up on his initial strike, and soon enough Emma-May was desperately defending herself, having given up all hope of getting in a strike of her own for fear of giving the expert swordsman a window of opportunity. Daron Torline had been right in his letter; despite all her study, she was still a novice of the sword, and she was as outclassed in this fight as she had been in the fight with the assassin last year.

She needed to make a move. The manservant outclassed her with the sword, so she would have to rely on magic. She leapt backwards, dropping her sword, and channelled her magicka over her entire body. A cool sensation trickled over her, and she saw confusion spread across Elan's face. She was now almost completely invisible, appearing only as a rippling patch of air that Elan was struggling to see. He compromised, swinging blindly at the air where Emma-May had been.

Emma-May ducked past one of his clumsy swipes and turned, so she was now behind him. Ending the invisibility spell, she shot a shower of sparks from her left hand, hitting the metal of Elan's blade. The electricity coursed down the sword, and Elan jolted and dropped the weapon. As he struggled to recover from the shock, Emma-May punched him hard in the side of the head, and he fell to the floor, unconscious.

She began to turn, intending to search each room for Jacques Dufrais. Then she heard a loud clang, and felt a sharp pain in her forehead. Before everything went black, she glimpsed a thin Breton man, holding a heavy cast iron saucepan which he had obviously just used to hit her.

Maurice turned from the unconscious woman to look at the parlour door. Jacques was looking round it, shock and confusion in his eyes. When he saw Emma-May's limp form, he smiled, then beckoned to Maurice. "Bring her and an extra chair." He said, his voice low and dangerous. Then he disappeared back into the parlour as Maurice started dragging the limp woman down the hallway.

Pain. Her head felt like it was about to explode, and her ears were ringing, one clear, high pitched note resonating in her skull. Emma-May slowly opened her eyes, her surroundings slowly becoming clearer and clearer. She couldn't move, she knew that much. It wasn't just certain parts of her body; every single bit of her stubbornly refused to move, no matter how much she tried; it was an effort just to keep breathing. As a result, she couldn't turn her head or even move her eyes away from the despicable man sat in the armchair in front of her.

Emma-May's first thought was that Jacques Dufrais was not an attractive man. He had a ring of dark hair around the side of his head, but the top was completely bald. He had small, ugly eyes, a pronounced nose, flabby, wrinkled cheeks and a bushy moustache the same colour as his remaining hair. He was sitting in the armchair as if it was a throne, and was running his eyes over Emma-May's body. She realised she was in a similar chair, slumped opposite him.

Stood around Jacques were his manservants, each of whom were regarding Emma-May with expressions of deep loathing. The robed man had clearly healed his injuries with magic, but the swordsman was sporting an impressive lump where Emma-May's punch had connected, and his right hand was red with electrical burns. The man who had knocked her out was unharmed, and still holding the saucepan. Emma-May wanted to glare back, but still couldn't move her eyes.

"So...I finally get to meet the girl my late cousin adopted." Jacques smirked, filling Emma-May with an uncontrollable rage. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself at the man in front of her and rip his throat out with her bare hands. "I have to say, you're not quite what I expected. You certainly put up a better fight than that...unfortunate girl I encountered eleven months ago."

Emma-May tried to growl, but lost control of her breathing as a result. Her heart leapt as she fought to draw breath into her lungs.

"I understand your anger, Miss...LeFleur, but the fact is, Amelie's estate has lawfully passed to me." He nodded to the robed man, who shot a bolt of green light at her from his palm. Emma-May realised he must be using paralysis magic, a complex field of Alteration. She knew she was facing a powerful mage. All the same, his magic must wear off after a time, which is why he was continuing to renew it. Jacques continued. "Normally I'd order you thrown out, but the fact is, you've not only damaged my property, but you've assaulted Artemis and Elan. And that means you owe me compensation."

The man with the saucepan, whose name Emma-May didn't know, and the swordsman, who Emma-May guessed was Elan, marched over and grabbed her frozen arms, an exercise she thought futile until Jacques nodded at Artemis, the mage, again, and he cast another spell. She felt movement return to her body, and instantly tried to throw herself at Dufrais, but the other two men had her in an iron grip, and she struggled in vain.

Together, they wrestled her to the floor. Dufrais stood up, a horrifying grin on his face. Emma-May screamed and struggled harder, but the unnamed man clamped his hand over her mouth, muffling the noise. The hand tasted of baking. Dufrais held his hand out to Artemis, who passed his a small, Elven made dagger. He balanced it in his hand, then knelt, holding the dagger to Emma-May's robes. She convulsed in horror as she realised his intent.

"I'd advise you keep still. I wouldn't want to harm a pretty thing like you." Jacques' voice was poison in her ears. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and tears were beginning to form in her eyes. She should have gone to the guard. How naive had she been to think she could march in with her fancy magic and fight her way to Dufrais? Stupid, silly girl. And now she was going to pay. Dufrais positioned the dagger, ready to cut through her robes.

And then Elan convulsed as an arrow smashed through his ear, piercing his brain and splattering Emma-May with blood. The unnamed man who smelt of baking was hit in the back, falling away from Emma-May. She was free. She lashed out, hitting Dufrais in the face. He staggered to his feet, dropping the dagger.

Artemis had reacted quickly, summoning sparks into his hands to confront the Evermore guardsmen who had killed the other two guardsmen. He was too slow. Two arrows struck him, one piercing his right eye. He fell back, the lighting in his palms fading.

Emma-May, meanwhile, had punched Dufrais again, knocking him against the parlour wall. In one quick movement, Emma-May swept the dagger up from the floor, grasped it in her palm, and stabbed Jacques Dufrais right between the legs. He screamed, his howl of pain almost inhuman, and fell to his knees. Blood dripped down the dagger still buried in his crotch, forming a small pool on the floor. Emma-May stumbled away from him and collapsed into her armchair as three guardsmen ran towards the injured Dufrais.

Three people entered her field of vision. One of them she recognised as the handsome captain of the Evermore guard, who was barking orders to the three guardsmen. "Get him to a healer. Make sure he doesn't die, but don't repair anything non-vital." A grin flickered onto the captain's face. "When he's healed, lock him up." The other two people, Emma-May realised, were Daphne and Bellatrix. Both of them approached her.

"Emma-May? Are you alright?" Bellatrix said, concern in her face. Emma-May shook her head. Her brain was a confused mess, undisciplined thoughts rushing back and forth. She looked at her friends again, and watched as their faces slowly faded. It was done. Fleur was avenged.

Emma-May LeFleur smiled as she fainted.

**A/N: I –hate- this chapter and everything about it. It's so cliché and boring. It took a real effort not to make it a Mary Sue chapter where Emma-May ran in, killed the baddies and saved the day. I did take a little satisfaction in writing her...unorthodox dagger attack on Jacques Dufrais, but apart from that, this is my least favourite chapter so far and I'm glad it's over.**


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